With that, Miranda turned and walked to the door before she made a huge fool of herself by confessing her love for him and producing their marriage lines, before she gave him the chance to hurt her once again.
Daniel had finally kissed her like a lover, and Miranda walked away while her shaky legs were still able to support her.
Chapter Sixteen
“Prudence and love are not made for each other;
As love waxes, prudence wanes.”
—François, Duc de La Rochefoucauld, 1613–1680
She was still fretting over what she should do next when Ned arrived that afternoon with baskets of provisions, a travel trunk full of clothes for Miranda, a handful of mail, and her most recent invitations—along with profuse apologies for his tardy return.
“I’m so sorry, milady,” he said as soon as Miranda opened the back door to admit him. “I gave Lady St. Germaine your message when I delivered her breakfast tray this morning. Rupert and I intended to leave as soon as my breakfast chores were complete, but when your mother learned that you’d decided to visit friends, she decided to pay calls and do some shopping.” Ned appeared a bit chagrined. “Rupert drove, and I accompanied her.” He exhaled. “I believe we paid a call on every establishment on Bond Street.”
“I understand.” Better than anyone. Miranda knew that her mother could be quite formidable when she set her mind to do something. And the dowager Lady St. Germaine loved to shop.
Ned looked at Miranda and realized that she was naked except for a brocade robe. “I came as soon as I could, but it’s quite clear that I’ve come at an inopportune time. Please forgive me for interrupting your honeymoon, my lady.”
Realizing Ned had been misled by her dress or lack thereof, Miranda looked down at her robe and blushed. “You didn’t interrupt my honeymoon,” she told him.
Her mode of dress said otherwise and Ned couldn’t help but stare at her. Either Lady Miranda had just come from the bath or something was amiss.
“His Grace is still not quite the pink.” Miranda lifted her chin a notch higher and straightened to her full height. “And his memory of last night’s events is rather faulty. Especially the visit to St. Michael’s Square.”
“Heavy drink has been known to affect a man’s memory, miss,” Ned commiserated.
“I suppose it has,” Miranda agreed. “Perhaps, he’ll remember when he wakes.”
“Perhaps.”
Miranda closed her eyes for a minute, then opened them again. “I’ve no one to blame but myself. I knew better than to marry him when he was so foxed. But, I …”
“His Grace was most insistent, miss,” Ned reminded her. “He didn’t give you much choice.”
“I know,” Miranda admitted, “but that’s no excuse. I knew what I was doing, even if he did not. And I’ll not have him think I persuaded him to marry me for my own purposes. So, until His Grace remembers—we’ll pretend it never happened.”
“And if he never remembers?” Ned asked the question Miranda had been asking herself.
“We’ll pretend it never happened.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady, but you won’t be able to pretend it never happened forever,” her footman said. “Lady Manwaring and the curate were witnesses, and Rupert and I were there as well. We heard the bishop say the marriage should be recorded in the parish register within thirty days. Someone is bound to find out about it.”
“Not if we don’t tell them,” Miranda insisted. “Who in the ton is going to request the St. Michael’s parish register? In the meantime, we’ll go on as we always have.”
“Will that be possible, miss?”
“Of course it’s possible,” Miranda replied with a great deal more bravado than she felt. “Why shouldn’t it be?”
Ned cleared his throat and turned his gaze to the marble floor before meeting her gaze. “I beg your pardon again, milady, but you’ve nothing on but a man’s robe. I would never have left you alone with him if I had known this would happen …” he replied.
“Nothing happened,” she reminded him.
“Then why aren’t you wearing your dress?”
Miranda made a face. “His Grace was violently ill upon it.” She looked at Ned. “I couldn’t wear it after that, or the garments that go under it, so I bundled them up and left them in a laundry tub in the scullery.”
Ned’s relief was palpable. He and Lady Miranda were much the same age and had known each other all their lives. Ned’s father was the head gamekeeper at Blackstone Abbey, the St. Germaine county seat in Northamptonshire. Ned and Lady Miranda had played together and built a solid friendship as children. And when he’d arrived in London to serve the family, when he was seven and ten, he’d immediately resumed the role of Miranda’s friend and confidant. They were more than mistress and footman—they were lifelong friends, and Miranda trusted him implicitly. Ned and Crawford, the butler, were the rocks upon which she and her mother relied so heavily.
“There’s an armoire full of ladies’ clothing in the master bedchamber,” Miranda told him. “But none of them fit me.” She plucked at the fabric of her robe. “This and a gentleman’s nightshirt were the only clothes I could wear. And the nightshirt got wet.” Miranda saw no point in revealing how the nightshirt got wet. “So I was reduced to wearing this and a toga made from a bedsheet.”
“And His Grace?”
“He’ll need clothes, too.” Miranda didn’t elaborate.
“From his valet at Sussex House or from his tailor on Bond Street?”
“Bond Street.” Miranda knew Ned was entirely trustworthy, but Daniel hadn’t given her leave to tell Ned of his injury or to have Ned reveal that information to His Grace’s valet. “Buy buff breeches, a white linen shirt.” She looked at Ned. “You know the style I like best with collar and cuffs instead of ruffles.” She tapped her bottom lip with her index fingers. “Stockings, drawers, neck linens, a razor and strop, hair brushes. Whatever a gentleman needs. I’ll give you enough money to pay for the purchases. And be very discreet, Ned. Neither His Grace’s tailor nor his valet can know about this.”
“Of course, miss.” Ned nodded. “Malden, His Grace’s valet, is known belowstairs in all the fashionable households as having a loose tongue.”
“Boots,” Miranda remembered suddenly. “His Grace was wearing shoes last night. He’ll need boots for buff breeches.”
Ned gave his mistress a smile. “No need to fret, miss. I know His Grace’s bootblack. I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll leave it to you, then,” Miranda assured him.
Ned nodded, then turned and began unpacking the baskets.
The aromas coming from a wicker picnic hamper were heavenly. Miranda’s mouth began to water. “What did you bring us?”
“Yorkshire pudding and fresh vegetables with cake for dessert.”
“Bless you,” Miranda told him.
“I took the liberty of bringing your mail and your invitations.” Ned finished unpacking the food hampers, then reached for Miranda’s mail and handed it to her. “And I instructed Pinder to pack clothes enough for a week’s stay in the country.”
Miranda glanced at the handful of invitations she’d received that bore today’s date. She knew her lady’s maid well enough to know that Pinder wouldn’t have thought to pack a ball gown suitable for Lady Garrison’s party in Richmond. Not for a week in the country. Simple day dresses, an evening gown or two, and perhaps a riding habit would be the extent of her wardrobe for the week. Miranda waved the invitations like a fan. “I suppose I should tend to these.” She frowned. “I was rather looking forward to Lady Garrison’s party tonight, but since my mother believes I’m in the country and I haven’t anything suitable to wear, I suppose I should send my regrets.”
“I could send Rupert to Upper Brook Street to fetch you a ball gown if you truly wish to attend Lady Garrison’s party,” Ned offered.
Miranda was tempted. “And leave my husband alone on our honeymoon? It simply isn’t done.” She ga
ve Ned a mischievous smile. “But since no one knows I have a husband or that I’m on my honeymoon, perhaps I should attend …”
“I think you should send your regrets to Lady Garrison and worry about the other invitations tomorrow,” Ned told her. “I’ll deliver them on my way home. Rupert will be up shortly with your trunk. Where shall I have him take it?”
“The bedroom that connects to the master bedchamber will be fine,” Miranda replied.
“Very good, miss.”
“Thank you, Ned.”
“Don’t mention it, miss. You attend to your toilette and your correspondence,” he told her, “while I dish up the food.”
“Please prepare a plate of food for His Grace,” she instructed, “but could you wait a bit before dishing up mine?”
“Certainly, milady.”
“And could you heat some water for me?”
Ned nodded. “Yes, of course, milady.”
“I would like a bath,” Miranda explained. “And the water coming out of the tap is cold.”
“I’ll fire up the burner beneath the water reservoir in the attic,” he volunteered. “It should warm it in no time.”
* * *
Miranda knocked on the bedroom door and waited until Daniel bade her enter.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come back,” Daniel admitted when Miranda opened the door.
“I wasn’t sure I would either,” she replied. “But you are the Duke of Sussex, and I can’t allow a royal duke to starve to death in my house.”
“Even if he deserves to?” Daniel asked.
“Even so,” she answered, turning to collect the tray she’d set on the floor outside the door. “I brought you something to eat.”
Daniel recognized an olive branch when he saw one. He grabbed it and held it close to his heart. “The food smells delicious. What is it?”
“Yorkshire pudding, vegetables, and cake for dessert.”
He arched an eyebrow and pretended to be skeptical. “Magically conjured up by a woman who confessed to being unable to brew tea or coffee?”
“Or lemonade,” Miranda reminded him. “Don’t forget the lemonade.” She placed the tray over his lap and removed the covers from the plate of pudding and vegetables, and from over the dessert plate containing a slice of chocolate cake. “Ned arrived with some provisions.”
Daniel smoothed the pink sheets and the spread covering him, pushed himself up against the pillows at his back, then lifted his knife and fork. “Any clothes?”
“For me,” she told him. “Not for you. At least not until he pays a call on your tailor.”
“I ordered several sets of clothing about a month ago,” Daniel said. “They should be ready. I took the liberty of writing a note for Ned to give to Weston.” He nodded toward the secretary and the folded piece of white stationery lying on top of it. The note had taken him nearly an hour to write and had all but exhausted the last of his strength. Daniel had been amazed that he’d managed to make it from bed to writing desk and back again. “I thought about having Ned take my shirt or my waistcoat, but they are probably stained and stiff with my blood, and since my tailor and my valet gossip, my tailor doesn’t need to see that.”
Miranda didn’t meet his gaze. “With a note from you, Ned shouldn’t have any trouble collecting your new clothes from the tailor.”
“I signed and sanded the note, but it isn’t sealed,” he continued between bites of Yorkshire pudding. “I seem to have lost my signet ring.” Daniel put down his knife and fork and stretched out his right hand. A pale strip of skin outlined the place where his gold ring had been.
“You didn’t lose it, Your Grace.” Miranda walked over to the bedside table and opened the reticule she’d left sitting there. “You gave it to me last night.” She removed the ring from her purse and held it out for him to see. “For safekeeping.”
That surprised him. The only time he ever removed his signet ring was when he practiced boxing at Gentleman Jim’s, and then it was locked in his safe in Sussex House. He never willingly parted with it otherwise. She offered him the ring. Daniel brushed her fingers with his as he took it from her. The slight touch sent a jolt of awareness rushing through him. “Thank you, Miranda,” he said, sliding the ring into place. “I’m grateful.”
She turned and headed for the bedroom door. “You’re welcome, Your Grace.”
“You aren’t leaving?”
“Yes, I am,” Miranda answered.
Daniel frowned. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Very,” she admitted, “but I’ll eat later. Right now, I’d rather have a bath.”
“No doubt,” Daniel agreed.
It hadn’t escaped his notice that while Miranda had bathed him several times, she had been forced to go without. He focused his gaze on a spot to the left of Miranda’s left shoulder in a vain attempt to pretend he hadn’t been affected by the kiss they’d shared or by a barrage of mental images of Miranda in the bath. He fought to keep his body under control while his mind conjured up images of water droplets rolling down the slopes of her breasts, or down the curve of her spine.
And Daniel wasn’t relegated to using his imagination when picturing her naked body, for after kissing him senseless, Miranda had gifted him with a spectacular view of it.
“I’d like you to come back,” he said softly. “After your bath. I’d like to keep you company while you eat your dinner.”
“I don’t know that that’s a good idea, Daniel,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because I want to kiss you again,” she answered truthfully. “And I want you to kiss me again.” She bit her bottom lip. “Because I want more than kisses. I want to be a wife, and the one thing you don’t want to be is a husband, so …”
He nodded. “So, you were right to walk away this morning. Things were close to getting out of hand. And as much as I enjoyed kissing you—and I did enjoy it, very much—I was afraid I was in danger of taking what should be reserved for your husband …”
“Daniel,” she began trying to explain. “You don’t understand …”
“Perhaps I don’t understand the desire to be permanently tied to someone else,” he conceded. “But I understand the desire for temporary companionship, and I want you to come back.”
Miranda hesitated. He didn’t understand anything.
Because she hadn’t been able to tell him the truth.
“Please.”
He didn’t understand anything—except that she had a terrible weakness for him. “We’ll see.”
“I won’t touch you,” he promised.
Miranda didn’t appreciate his promise or find the prospect that he might live up to it the least bit appealing. On the contrary. She rather thought that kissing might present a solution to their problem.
Daniel continued. “I’ve been staring at these pink walls all day and I’d appreciate the company.”
She frowned.
“Miranda …”
She had already promised to love, honor, and cherish the dolt. She didn’t know if she had anything left to give. “We’ll see. I can’t promise anything more.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Have you not heard
When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo,
His best friends hear no more of him?”
—Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792–1822
“Any word from Daniel?” Jarrod asked without preamble as soon as Griff, Colin, Jonathan, and Alex settled into their customary places in the private room at White’s.
“Nobody has seen him since his mother’s gala last night,” Colin answered.
“And no one has heard a word from him or about him,” Griffin added.
“I made discreet inquiries all day,” Alex, Marquess of Courtland, the youngest and newest member of the League, reported. “I went everywhere I could think of, and I agree that if anyone has seen him since last night, they’re keeping very quiet about it.”
Jonathan nodded. “If I hadn’t seen him a
t the party last night, I would swear he hadn’t made it back from France.”
“He can’t have disappeared without someone seeing him.” Jarrod emptied his coffee cup, placed it on its saucer, set both of them on a side table, stood up, then began to pace the perimeter of the room. “Someone saw something.”
Colin hooked the leg of a leather ottoman with the toe of his boot and pulled it out of Jarrod’s path. He pushed the ottoman closer to Griff, allowing more room so Jarrod might circle the room without having to go around obstacles. “I agree,” Colin replied. “Someone has to have seen him, but so far we’ve had no success in locating that someone.”
“I asked Henderson how the dispatches were delivered last evening,” Jarrod told them. “And who delivered them.”
“And?” Colin prompted.
“Henderson informed me that Sussex didn’t deliver the dispatches, that he sent someone in his stead.”
“Travers?” Jonathan mentioned the name of the Duke of Sussex’s secretary.
“No.” Jarrod hated to disappoint Sussex’s cousin, but they were concerned with facts, not sentiment. “Henderson had never seen the fellow before, but he knew the code phrase. He repeated it to Henderson and handed over the leather pouch and the round of cheese Sussex chose as his signature, then returned to his coach.”
“The duke’s coach?” Alex asked.
“No.” Jarrod shook his head. “He arrived alone and in an unmarked coach.”
“What about the dispatches?” Colin asked.
“They were sealed. They showed no signs of tampering, and the information they contained appears to be genuine.”
“And Henderson was certain that the messenger repeated the correct phrase and delivered a round of French cheese?” Griff asked the question no one else wanted to ask, then looked at Jarrod for confirmation.
The Free Fellow entrusted with the dispatches usually delivered them to Jarrod or to Henderson, but there were times when that wasn’t possible, and the Free Fellows had devised a code for each mission whereby anyone sent in their stead was required to relay a specific message and deliver a specific item. The messages and the items were decided upon at the planning of each mission and given to Henderson, who accepted pouches in Jarrod’s absence.
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